Monet, Rembrandt and Picaso were also once three ..., a photo by Sparky2* on Flickr.
of being three and unafraid to stand tall
in practically nothing at all but warm sun
letting brand new notions go,
flow unchecked, unapologetic.
For now he knows only the touch of soft wind on his back
the sounds of water and birds and barking dog
the scents of rosemary, gardenia and purple sage nearby
the taste of apples and cinnamon still sweet on his tongue
He sees the rich browns of chocolate in his cookie, fire engine reds
the perfect light that shines back at him from our eyes -
and there it all is ... captured on his canvas.
. . .© Susan M. Kennedy 2012
. .by James Galvin
Let us begin with a simple line,
Drawn as a child would draw it,
To indicate the horizon,
More real than the real horizon,
Which is less than line,
Which is visible abstraction, a ratio.
The line ravishes the page with implications
Of white earth, white sky!
The horizon moves as we move,
Making us feel central.
But the horizon is an empty shell—
Strange radius whose center is peripheral.
As the horizon draws us on, withdrawing,
The line draws us in,
Requiring further lines,
Engendering curves, verticals, diagonals,
Urging shades, shapes, figures…
What should we place, in all good faith,
On the horizon? A stone?
An empty chair? A submarine?
Take your time. Take it easy.
The horizon will not stop abstracting us.